Falling for Zoe - by Skye Taylor, coming out this month from Bell Bridge Books.
The rumble of a diesel engine and the grinding of gears caught Jake Cameron’s attention. He looked up to see a red and white van with the familiar logo of a well known Wilmington moving company. Thankful for any diversion from the unwelcome feelings stirred up by today’s unsettling mail, Jake tossed the stack of letters onto the bench inside the garage door and stepped back outside to watch the movers.
The big van negotiated the sharp turn between the crumbling old brick gateposts guarding their little cul-de-sac and eased around the grassy little island in the center. Jake whistled in mild astonishment as it pulled to a stop in front of the once elegant Jolee homestead that squatted firmly on the rise between the road and the tidal marsh beyond. The real estate market was still agonizingly sluggish, and the neglected building had been vacant ever since the former owner had passed away. The nineteenth-century homes with antiquated everything just seemed to sit forever waiting for buyers with an interest in the unique and historic, or for investors on the lookout for cheap properties they could fix and flip.
A battered Toyota pickup truck swung around the van and pulled onto the crushed shell drive. Jake started across his lawn, intending to be neighborly and welcome the new guy on the block, whatever his plan for the place.
The person who slid out of the driver’s seat took him by surprise. She had a wild mane of reddish-gold curls and a figure to grab any man’s instant attention. Jake hesitated, waiting for a husband to appear from the passenger seat, but none did. The woman turned, saw Jake and flashed him a friendly smile.
“Hi!” the woman called in an engagingly musical voice. “Are you my new neighbor?”
Jake yanked himself out of his momentary confusion and finished covering the distance to the drive. He held out his hand. “If you’re moving into this place, then that would be a yes. Name’s Jake Cameron.”
“Nice to meet you, Jake.” Her eyes traveled down over his paint-stained T-shirt and frayed, khaki shorts and came back to his face with a curious sparkle in their greenish-brown depths that made him wonder if he’d left his fly down. “I’m Zoe Callahan.”
“Sorry, I’m kind of a mess. Been painting.” He forced himself not to check the status of his zipper as he shook her hand briefly before jamming his hands into his pockets.
She wasn’t as young as he’d first thought. Late twenties maybe, or early thirties. She was attractive in a fresh-faced, girl-next-door sort of way. What, he wondered, could have induced this engaging young woman to buy a house that was going to need an army to put it to rights?
“This time next week, I’ll be the one apologizing.” Zoe jerked her head in the direction of the house. “Everything will need painting inside and out, I’m afraid.”
“It’ll take a lot more than a coat of paint to get this place ready to put back on the market.” Jake studied the peeling paint and derelict railings more closely, reflecting on how really bad it had gotten over the months the house had been vacant.
“Oh, I don’t plan to sell it.” Zoe’s hazel eyes widened in exaggerated enthusiasm. “I’m here to stay.”
“Is . . . is there a Mr. Callahan?”
“Nope! Just me and the menagerie.”
“The menagerie?” Jake felt buffeted by the level of cheerful energy radiating off the woman.
Zoe waved her hand in the direction of the pickup truck. “Yup. Three dogs, two cats, and Polly. And the fish, of course. The dogs are mine. I inherited the rest when my siblings moved out and left them behind. All except Polly. She was Michael’s but his wife refused to have her around after they were married.”
Jake felt like taking a step backwards. “Wow!” he said weakly, trying to imagine the chaotic atmosphere her menagerie brought with them. Was Polly what it sounded like? He gestured vaguely in the direction of the run-down mansion. “So, you made of money, or what?”
Zoe frowned. “Made of money?”
Jake belatedly realized that his comment was both rude and intrusive, although he hadn’t meant it that way. “Just . . . it’s going to take a ton of money to fix this place up. If there’s no Mr. Callahan . . .”
Zoe’s finely arched brows peaked into a challenge.
Now he was being politically incorrect. Nice way to impress the new neighbor, Cameron!
“You think just because I’m a woman, I can’t handle it?”
“Well, no, ma’am. I . . . ” Jake fumbled. If he was honest, that was exactly what he’d been thinking. It was a beautiful place. Old, rambling and unique, but it had been left untended for far too long. “It’s just that it needs a lot of work.”
“You sound like my father.” Zoe flipped her hand dismissively.
Sounding like Zoe’s father was clearly not a compliment.
“Sorry,” Jake muttered, mentally chastising himself. The woman definitely had spunk. “It’s really a grand old place. Lots of history. Solidly built. Back when houses were built to last for generations. Here—” He reached for his wallet and dug out a business card. “Maybe you’re already in the business, but if not, I’m in construction. I’d be glad to check it out for you. Give you some estimates. Make sure there aren’t any serious problems you’ll need to address right off. I can steer you in the direction of some good craftsmen. Might even be able help out myself on some of the stuff.”
That’s nice! Really nice. Like I don’t have enough to keep me busy as it is? Yet, even as the warning flashed into his head, his fingers relinquished the card.
Something about Ms. Zoe Callahan had grabbed his attention the moment she’d slid from the truck, and wouldn’t let go. She wasn’t beautiful, at least not in the classic sense. Nor did she appear to be the kind of siren who would be all over his brand new return to bachelorhood. Maybe it was the way her lips turned up at the corners as if she found life amusing and dared everyone else to join her. Or perhaps it was the challenge in her peaked brows, when Jake had questioned her intentions for the classic old home.
What was he thinking? Didn’t he already have a houseful of women who tested his peace and sanity? On a daily basis! Had he really just volunteered to add another?
Zoe studied the card then stuck it in her pocket. “Thanks. I just might have to take you up on it. I’m new at the whole home-owner thing.”
“Hey! Ms. Callahan! You need to get inside and tell the guys where you want things put.” The driver of the van approached with a clipboard in one hand. “And I need your check for the balance due, Ma’am.”
Before Zoe could turn away, Jake opened his mouth. “You have any plans for supper? You haven’t even unpacked yet, and you probably haven’t shopped for any groceries, and you’re bound to be hungry.” He was babbling, and he must sound like an idiot. But her kitchen wouldn’t be ready to cook in until sometime tomorrow at the earliest. There was always room for one more at his table.
Zoe’s mouth stretched into an engaging smile that warmed him right down to his toes and rewarded him for his impulsive offer. “That would be wonderful. What time?”
“Sixish sound okay?”
“Six is great. Any meal I don’t have to prepare myself sounds heavenly.” Zoe flashed him another captivating grin and turned back to the van driver.
What have I done? Jake shook his head in disbelief. The last thing I need is another female in my already crazy life no matter how cute she is. That place is going to need a mountain of fixing up. Jake had the sudden, uneasy conviction that Zoe Callahan’s arrival in his life was going to turn out to be even more unsettling than the arrival of today’s mail.
Actually, Ms Reavis doesn’t really know me. She did thank me for a review I gave one of her books, but that’s all there is as far as our friendship goes. The relationship is really about what I’ve been doing the last couple weeks when I should have been sleeping.
One of the perks of being retired is that I get to sleep in and get up when I feel like it rather than when the alarm clock shrilly demands that I roll out and get busy with my day. I also get to order my days however I like. I can take the time for a lovely long walk on the beach with the dog, and I can step away from my desk to spend time chatting with neighbors who pass by my little bungalow here at the beach. I can do laundry at 10 am or 10 pm, whenever the notion occurs to me. I can pay my bills all at once and be done with it for the month, or as they come in depending on the whim of the day. And I can jump in my car to do an errand right then and there if I want to. Supper could be anytime, from 5:00pm with friends, to 9:00 when I come up for air after an intense few hours of writing. My life, and I love it, is pretty much spontaneous. All except for my life-long habit of reading in bed.
It’s gotten exponentially easier to read in bed, first with the advent of the Kindle that’s a lot easier to control than an oversized hardcover, or a paperback determined to shut every time my finger slips. But now I read in bed mostly on my iPhone because I don’t even need a bedside light. And because I can hold it endlessly in one hand, flicking the pages with the touch of my thumb.
And here’s where Cheryl Reavis comes in. My habit is to read a chapter before putting the book down and burrowing into the covers to fall asleep. But Ms. Reavis’ books don’t lend themselves to such arbitrary limits. Like Lay’s potato chips that claim you can’t have just one, I can’t read just one chapter. Her characters are so compelling and their stories so enticing, I find myself glancing at the clock and thinking, Well, it’s only 1:00 am. I can read another chapter. Only to glance at the clock a few minutes later to discover it’s 2:30 in the morning. Or 3:15! My sleeping-in lasts well past sunrise (which is later here than many places). And I also find myself aching to take a nap later on in the day. So you think I’d learn. Don’t take one of this lady’s books to bed with me. Grab a Reader’s Digest maybe, or one of those books you know you should read, but find it hard to get into. But for some reason, I’m a slow learner about this particular issue. Eventually I’ll get to the end of her many books in print, and life might get back to normal.
Or not. My life was never all that normal to start with. But in the mean time, I am loving this author’s stories. I’m falling in love with her heroes and rooting for her heroines. So far every book has had a different setting so I get to visit places I’ve never been, some of them in a time I never lived. And I am loving every late night moment.
What author, or authors have you read that you find compelling, enjoyable and worth staying up late to read?
Celebrating the release of a brand new series by a dear friend is always fun. But sharing the news that you can get a super deal on this book today is even better.
CARLY'S RULE - book one in the new series The Braddocks
Pastry Chef Carly Braddock only ever loved one man, Luke Donovan, who disappeared from her life years ago, breaking her heart and leaving her to wonder what happened to him. When he walks into Sugar Plums, her bakery/cafe, and back into her life after all this time, she isn’t in a forgiving mood. Though he doesn’t know it, her experience with him shaped the other relationships in her life and led her to create a rule to protect her heart. What neither counts on is that the chemistry between them is still as fierce and tangible as it was all those years ago, and Carly doesn’t know until her heart is completely involved once again that Luke has kept an important part of his life from her. When she finds out what it is, she knows she must let him go, and this time for good. Not only did he keep something from her, but he broke the one thing she created to protect her heart . . . Carly’s Rule.
About Ms. King:
Vickie L. King is originally from a small town in West Virginia. She transplanted to Jacksonville, Florida in 1994, and while she loves living in the sunshine state, now and then she misses watching the seasons go through their changes, and if she closes her eyes, she can still imagine herself standing on the deck of their family home on top of the ridge, staring out over the hills and valleys that will always be a part of her.
She has four grown children, a daughter-in-law and son-in-law, four grandchildren, a Chihuahua named Bentley and the best family and friends anyone could have.
Vickie is previously published in short fiction, with both romance and mystery for Woman’s World Magazine and with a romantic short story for the Sun. She is a member of RWA, and she is active in her local chapter, Ancient City Romance Authors (ACRA), where she serves on the board.
You’ve probably seen that thing they pass around the internet from time to time about being busy all day and getting nothing done. Each task begun required going somewhere to get something required to complete it and once there came across a reminder for something else that needed doing. But that something also required going on the hunt and so it went, all day and you ended up spending the day chasing your tail. Well, I’ve been there, done that, but today was different.
Over the last couple weeks, months if I get right down to it, there have been a number of things that had to get done before I could devote myself to completing the book currently in progress. A trip to New York, a meeting in Palatka, another in Jacksonville, dentist appointments, line edits for the book coming out next month, and so it went. But this week was going to be different. IS going to be different. Once I get this blog posted.
I got up this morning with the idea in my head that it was Monday. A brand new day with nothing that needed doing. A brand new week without a single appointment, meeting, or errand. I even have enough food in the house that a trip to the grocery store is not required. I am going to get soooo much done. I can’t wait.
Except I did have to wait. The usual morning chores like walking the dog, making myself some breakfast and taking my shower came first. And that was where the trouble began. I replaced my smoke detector a few months back and apparently it’s a lot more sensitive than the old one. Being the only one in the house, leaving the bathroom door open when I shower is standard. But this morning, I’m luxuriating in the steamy flow of water when the smoke alarm goes off. Or was it the carbon dioxide one? I turn the water off and grab my towel to investigate. It’s not the CO which is a relief. I really didn’t want to run outdoors dripping wet with nothing but a towel around me. And there is no smoke. Only excessive steam from that lengthy shower. Which wasn’t done yet, my hair hadn’t been rinsed. I pressed re-set and went back to finish the job.
Once dressed, I climbed up to check on the detector which was now beeping three short beeps every two minutes or so. I tried waving a magazine in front of the sensor. No change. I got a stool and took it down, hunted down the hair dryer which gets used for everything BUT drying hair to see if a little warm air would dry the condensate out of it. That seemed to do the trick. But before I got to that point, I’d rummaged through my “stuff” drawer looking for the instruction manual that came with it. Now I had to sort through all the “stuff” I’d hauled out of the drawer and spread across the counter. Might as well sort and toss things that didn’t need keeping. Good, that’s done. Now for breakfast.
I carried my breakfast to my desk figuring I’d check my email while I ate. And there on the desk, on top of the keyboard where I couldn’t miss it was a reminder to call about my car insurance. Drat!
I could just write a check to the old company, but I’d gotten a couple quotes a few months back that were better. Two weeks ago, I’d called my old company to give them an opportunity to meet those better quotes, but they had never called me back. I grabbed the file and started calling. I’ve got a new company now at a tidy savings. But to save an additional bit, I have to go online and complete a defensive driving study unit. I set up my online account, got the money transferred from my savings account to pay for the annual premium. And while I was at it, had to call the bank because I also have a new computer and the bank didn’t recognize the new equipment and the one-time code to register the new computer didn’t work. Another chunk of my day disappeared.
By the time all was said and done, it was way past lunch. In fact, it’s now half way through the afternoon. A quarter to four, in fact. Where did my pristine day that lay before me like a blanket of fresh fallen snow go? At least I can say I accomplished something! I put fresh batteries in the smoke detector, cleaned out the “stuff” drawer, paid two bills and registered my new computer, and my car is insured for another year. Now it’s time to walk the dog again. Maybe tomorrow?
No, we weren’t playing poker. Oh, there might have been a deck of two of cards in evidence over the weekend, but the game of choice in our family is usually Toledo Run. Since our family is scattered up and down the eastern coast, most of us had to travel. And most of us stayed at Lori and Nick’s home. So, it was more than just a full house – it was packed. Kids on air mats, adults on pull-out couches, the host kids on the floor in their parent’s bedroom so visiting aunts and uncles and cousins had a place to sleep.
We could find rooms in local hotels, but where would be the fun in that. Instead, the day begins with the waking of the first child, with coffee and bagels in our pajamas, cramming as many minutes with each other as possible into the day or days we are together. And it generally ends with the previously mentioned cards around the dining room table after most of the kids have crashed.
As always when our family gathers there’s lots of excitement, kids running and giggling, and sometimes getting into trouble. The kind of trouble cousins always seem to cook up together. Often the guys gather around whatever game is in season on TV. And there’s always lots of great food and cameras catching all the best moments to save for posterity. We often talk about posterity as if he were another guest but looking back on similar gatherings in the past is always fun and made that much more fun when photos are dragged out to remind us how quickly the kids grow up or how young we all once looked.
(That's Rebecca back when she and Joe were just married. Then, Lori, Rebecca and Alex - Lori must have been about 12 then. And me and my husband Cal with the oldest four, Jeff, Bobbi, Rebecca and Alex. Lori was a twinkle in her daddy's eye at the time.)
This particular family event was Emily Catherine’s baptism. My grandmother’s christening gown, which was made in the 1800s, was carefully washed and every inch of lace and linen ironed for the big day. Tables were set up and food set out for the party afterward – All Nick’s family, who live close enough to come for the day would be doubling our numbers. Considering it was a private baptism, a remarkable portion of the pews were filled in this big church. My new grandson-in-law and another granddaughter’s boyfriend were recruited for altar-boy duties which they carried off with aplomb. And Emily Catherine became the newest member of Christ’s family.
We were fortunate that in spite of the time of year and the unusually snowy winter, everyone was able to get there and home without weather related problems. Now we’re all looking forward to our family week at the lake this summer.
My first book was written in pencil on yellow legal pads. My only distractions (I say that like they were a minor distraction) were three little kids under five. All my research was done at the library and what I didn’t know, I made up. Luckily for everyone, that book is lurking somewhere that the sun no longer shines. Even I don’t want to look at just how awful it probably was. My next book was penned, so to speak, on a computer, and I did have a dial-up email account, but the research for that was still done either in libraries or books I purchased and devoured at home. That second book was completed in thirty days. All 92,000 words. I lived in that book. I ate, drank, slept and dreamed that book for thirty uninterrupted days. By then I was a widow, the last of my kids was off to college and I’d just been laid off and remained out of work for ten months. There were NO distractions. My only breaks were when I sat down to share with my critique partner.
Compare that with the book I’m writing now. In between that book and this, about ten manuscripts later, I’ve graduated down to a laptop that goes everywhere with me, I have high speed Internet WiFi, and Facebook happened. In many ways all the endless easy access we have today is a good thing. I can research just about anything right from my laptop here at home, in the airport, or on the beach. I can visit libraries I’d never be able to get to physically and find arcane bits of trivia from just about any era. I can learn how a composting toilet works, or how swords were made in the middle ages. A few clicks of the mouse and I have the line-up for the Boston Red Sox game played on September 7th in 1970, all the gory details of the OJ Simpson trial or who became King of England after the Battle of Hastings in 1066. I can even call up satellite maps and photos so I know just what things look like. It’s mind-boggling and amazing. How did I ever write anything without it?
On the other hand, all this connectivity is distracting. When I first started writing on a computer, if I stared at my work-in-progress long enough and nothing happened, I could hop over and play a game of solitaire or ten. There were other distractions like Sammy the Snake (I know, now I’m dating myself) but on the whole that palled relatively quickly and I was back to staring at my half written manuscript waiting for ideas and words to percolate onto the page. My characters and their problems were so much easier to stay involved with. Today is so very different.
Every day I jump out of bed with the idea that I am going to get soooo much written today. I scramble into some clothes and take the dog for a walk, then make my breakfast and carry it to my study. I’ll read my email while I eat. But reading the email is just the beginning. Then I have to check Facebook. And sometimes Goodreads, or Pinterest or God knows there are so many places to check. Friends post links to interesting books I might want to buy, or clips and videos I just have to see. There are blogs to read and interesting articles about just about anything. Next thing I know, my stomach is telling me it’s hungry. How on earth did it get to be 2:30 in the afternoon already??? Where did that whole long pristine day go? I haven’t even opened up my WIP yet. And the dog wants to go for another walk. The tide is out and the beach is calling. Lunch is calling, too. By the time all these things are taken care of, it’s late afternoon and the day is more than half gone.
The saving grace for me is that the hours between four pm and ten pm are my most productive hours anyway. But I still have to discipline myself to disconnect from the internet and pay attention. My laptop has a function that puts all that stuff in the background and even stifles the little dings that normally tell me I have mail, or someone’s posted to my FB page. I just have to turn it on. AND leave my smartphone out of earshot and out of sight. My phone has even more distractions than my laptop.
There’s good and bad in everything and the Internet is no different. For a writer, it can be the biggest boon with enormous potential, helping to expand our platform and learn about our craft. But it can also be the biggest distraction.
The holidays were good to me this year and I have a lot to be thankful for. My flight north on Christmas Eve was only delayed by a couple hours, and I arrived in a land sparkling with new snow. What could be nicer than a white Christmas? Better yet, my son’s new family room had the most gorgeous tree with twinkling lights reflected in all the windows and a lovely fireplace to cozy up to. Stockings had been hung and a snack set out for Santa. All I had to do was settle in and enjoy.
Which I did. Very much. Christmas is always more exciting with children and their innocent pleasure in the magic of the day. Then, on the Saturday after Christmas my granddaughter, Anna Rose, was baptized and the entire family gathered to celebrate with her. All my kids but one and all my grandkids but two. The perfect ending for a year filled with blessings.
My flight home was scheduled for Jan 2nd at 8:04 pm. By New Year’s Eve it was clear that a big snowstorm was on it’s way to New England. I called Jet Blue to see if I could fly out the night before the storm, but alas, that was going to cost me so I declined. Then on New Year’s Day when I logged onto the internet to check in, instead of having my boarding pass pop up, an 800 number appeared advising me to call and change my flight - no fees would be charged. I wanted to say, I told you so..... but I didn’t. I claimed one of three seats left on the first flight out the next morning. Then the evening news reported the snow, which I’d thought wasn’t going to start until mid-day, was going to begin in the wee hours before dawn.
My son got up an hour earlier than planned and drove through dark streets already covered with snow and far more traffic than I would have guessed at that hour of the morning, but he got me to the airport on time. As it turned out the plane I was to fly out on did NOT get to the airport on time. Instead, a flight bound for Tampa that was supposed to be gone a half hour ago still sat at the gate. But it finally left and my plane arrived. An hour later than scheduled, we were all in our seats and ready to push back, but......the door remained open! What now? Apparently the pilot had filed a new flight plan. I’m not sure, but I think it had to do with the gathering storm. FAA rules require that the actual physical paperwork must be delivered to the cockpit before the plane can push back from the terminal. I have no idea where these were generated, but I swear it had to be somewhere in South Boston and there was a bicycle currier involved. Why else should it take an hour for the paperwork to arrive?
When the paperwork was finally delivered to the cockpit, the pilot announced it would be just a few more minutes before we headed out to the de-icing area. What he didn’t tell us (probably fearing a revolt) was that the de-icing line was an hour long. This area, where men sitting in little enclosed cages at the ends of long, hinged booms and armed with high volume nozzles that spray two different chemical mixtures to first rid the plane of built up snow, then keep it clear of ice until it can get into the air, is right at the end of the runway. As we pulled into that line we could still see the buildings on the far side of the runway, but by the time our turn came around, the visibility was closing in fast. The snow was gathering momentum.
Before we boarded the plane there were already quite a few delays and several cancellations showing on both arrival and departure boards. By the time we roared down the runway and into the air at 11:30 (only 3 hours and 10 minutes behind schedule,) I wondered how many more cancellations had been posted. As it turns out, I was fortunate to get out at all. The entire airport was closed down later in the day and well before my originally scheduled flight. It might have been cloudy and spitting rain when I stepped out of the terminal in Jacksonville, but it was great to be back in Florida and even sweeter to shed all the heavy clothes I’d layered on earlier and head home in my shirtsleeves.
Christmas and New Years were good to me, but so were the forces that brought me home. Thanks to my son who not only drove to work so he could drop me at the airport but then had to drive home at the end of his day in the height of the storm (he usually takes public transportation.) It took over two hours to drive what should have taken 30 minutes. Thanks to all the workers at Logan who put up with frustrated travelers and labored to get us off. Thanks to the pilot and his crew. And Thank You God that I live in St Augustine.
Years ago, a priest I admired and liked quite firmly insisted that things like knocking on wood or walking under ladders were superstitions and had no place in the life of a Christian who believes in God. And I’ve tried hard to hold to that kind of faith. I don’t exactly go out of my way to walk under ladders, but then, I don’t freak when a black cat crosses my path. I jumped out of a perfectly good airplane for the first time on Friday the thirteenth and got married without something old or borrowed about my person.
And so, I firmly told myself, just because my air handler/heat pump has finally given up the ghost, long past the life expectancy noted in my pre-purchase home inspection, mind you, and my brand new iPad also died, way before its time, there was no reason to believe that misfortune always comes in threes. But still... there was that feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Now I’m wondering which of the events since is to be considered the other shoe!
As I write this, my AC/heat guy is outside replacing my air handling system that had been limping along for the past two years with temporary fixes with a brand new, up to date (no Freon here) system. And Best Buy promptly replaced the iPad that failed to take a charge. But yesterday, I wrote out a check for the Fireman’s fund and noted the admonition to replace the batteries in my smoke detectors. I dug through my bin of batteries and found the right size, only to discover the smoke detector in my bedroom was broken. Quite definitely broken since a piece fell out when the battery was removed. A piece I have no idea how or where to put back. So, off I went to the hardware store, and I now have a new, state of the art, smoke and carbon monoxide detector. Was that number three?
Or is it the door to the air handler that literally fell off when opened today? The door is a heavy one, made of pressed wood and all the screws pulled right clean out. Terry assures me he’ll fix it, but I’m wondering if it shouldn’t be replaced. Time will tell on that one.
Or perhaps it’s the fact that mildew was found in the duct. According to Terry’s son, this often happens when a system is failing and tries so hard to function that it sucks moisture up into the ducts where it does not belong. I’m told that an ultraviolet light will fix this. Of course, they don’t have such a light with them and Terry will have to return another day to install that to the tune of another couple hundred bucks.
So, here’s the big question of the day... Since 5 things have failed this week, does this mean there’s still one more thing out there waiting to pounce? And where’s my friend Ken when I need someone to reassure me that misfortune comes in threes is just a superstition?
I’m fascinated by the sea. I love it in all its many moods. I love the exhilaration of blowing wind and stinging spray. I love the feel of waves splashing about my feet. I love the romance of moonlight on the water and the endless shades of blue through all the seasons. I love to swim in it, or sail on it. I love watching the endless breaking of waves. Most of all, I love living here where it’s part of my life every day.
What is it about the sea that draws me so inexorably? I didn’t grow up living by the sea, although my grandparents enjoyed it enough to take me to spend many days at the beach when I was a child. For awhile my father owned a sailboat that I don’t remember much about sailing in, but after a hurricane sank her, my dad spent months restoring her while my brother and I played along the shore for unfettered hours of endless adventure. But it’s not as though the sea was in my blood. I didn’t descend from fishermen or mariners who earned their livelihood from the sea. I didn’t grow up falling asleep with the rote of the sea as my lullaby, and we lived too far away for the smell of salt to be a part of my daily life.
So why has a life lived at the edge of the sea become so much a part of me now? I’ve friends who retired to Arizona, yet I am appalled by the idea. True there is the Colorado River among many others and the magnificent Grand Canyon, but nowhere does that state touch the sea. When I joined the Peace Corps and they told me I was headed to the South Pacific, my first reaction was Awesome! 173 Islands scattered over hundreds of square miles of ocean, how far away can the beach be from wherever I end up?
Before the Peace Corps, and before moving to my current home, I had a lovely house on the shores of St John’s Bay in Maine for twenty years. Now I live on a barrier island in St Augustine, Florida. My kids love to tease me about the endless photos I feel compelled to take of the sun turning the ocean to pink or fiery red and orange, or the moon sending a river of glittering silver across the inky nighttime surface of the sea. The endless waves fascinate me and I’ve taken hundreds of photos of those, too. Sometimes crashing boldly against the shore sending up massive plumes of spray and at other times eddying quietly about the rocks or running up the beach in smooth sheets of glistening water.
But it can’t be just the astonishing and ever changing beauty of the ocean in its many moods because God’s world it full of heart-stopping beauty. Snow capped mountains and babbling streams. Magnifient fall foliage. Gardens in full bloom. Towering redwoods, sweet-smelling frangipani and lilacs in spring. The Aurora Borealis. Sunrises and sunsets. A sparkling fairyland left behind after a winter storm of freezing rain. Or a rainbow stretched gloriously above a rain-drenched world. A newborn baby or an intricate spider’s web. The beauty of God’s works is boundless, from large to small.
So if it’s not the beauty, then why do I love the sea so? Why do I put up with stainless steel that rusts so I can leave my doors and windows open to let the sound and smell of the ocean come inside? What lures me out to walk on the beach every day with my dog? Why am I compelled to take my shoes off and wade in the waves? Why do I feel this incredible sense of belonging and welcome whenever I return from being somewhere not by the sea? Maybe I’ll never know the answer to those questions, but I do know wherever I travel, I always find myself seeking out the sea, looking for the nearest beach, collecting little stones and shells, sea-treasures from all over the world. And I’ve told my kids when my life is done, don’t hold a wake, but have a beach party to remember and celebrate my life instead. Toss my ashes into the sea so some small part of me will live in it forever.
You’re probably wondering what Mayhem and Magic have in common, but that’s because you haven’t seen the new show at the Colonial Quarter in downtown St Augustine, FL. On Friday nights, for a modest ten bucks, you can relax under the stars with a glass of your favorite spirits and see a master magician creating illusions as mind boggling as anything I’ve seen David Copperfield pull off. Forget sawing a woman in half or pulling rabbits out of hats, Mayhem de Magnifico pours wine into glasses that float in the air and does card tricks with a historic flare. Mayhem mixes his magic with interesting tidbits of history, and a great deal of comedy. And it won’t matter where you sit, because even lurking in the shadows at the back you might still be enlisted to become part of the act.
Last Friday my friend and I had supper at a terrific little Greek restaurant on Cathedral Place, then wandered up St George Street. The town was hopping this past Friday due to it being First Friday, the night when there are new art exhibits all over town. There was also live entertainment at Ann O’Malley’s and the San Sebastian Winery, two stage plays that I know of and a comedy show. But as we returned down St George Street some while later, having laughed and marveled and been thoroughly entertained, we were glad we’d chosen to stop in at the Quarter and take in Mayhem de Magnifico.
I’m not going to give away any of Mayhem’s marvelous illusions because I really want you to head on down and see them for yourself. But I can tell you they involve jewels and coins and a very real sword. From now until at least the start of the new year Mayhem de Magnifico will be performing on Friday nights at 8:00pm. The gates open at 7:30pm and tickets can be purchased at the door. Kids are half price and they sure get their money’s worth as Magnifico draws them right into the action, up on the stage as helpers.
